Got Milk?
by mollywebb200
Summary: It's Tracy vs. Tracy...what will win, youth and stealth or age and cunning? (Now - with less sucky synopsis)


On hushed ninja feet, Gordon Tracy crept down the back stairway, careful to make no sound that would alert the people in the kitchen below to his presence. The old wooden stairs had been pounded by three generations of Tracy family feet and had developed into quite a challenge to navigate quietly, but the thirteen year old boy had had spent countless hours learning to avoid the noisy bits that would give him away when he was in stealth mode.

The fourth step from the bottom was a particular offender, making an ungodly sound not unlike an angry pig and almost as loud. The next step down was almost as bad, but if you knew the exact spot on outside edge of the tread to place your foot, it could be avoided. Practice and dedication had turned Gordon into the one member of the family who could truly claim to have mastered the art of Stairway Silence.

In the hallway at the bottom of the stairs was the doorway that led into the sunny kitchen with its simple white cabinets and wood floor where Grandma reigned supreme. Because a quick trip through the kitchen led to the door to the back yard, the back staircase was a favorite way for the Tracy boys to try to sneak in and out of the house…but if an unwary person were traversing that stairway, a veritable symphony of squeaks and groans could be heard on the trip up and down.. Which was why Grandma Tracy had never had the stairs repaired…it was a very handy way of keeping track of five lively Tracy boys, and a pretty cheap burglar alarm to boot!

Gordon had studied hard and long to learn the Secrets of the Stairs, and was wise enough not to offer to teach any of his brothers what he knew. Which made it much easier for him to pull the numerous practical jokes he was noted for.

It was most important on this particular morning that he not be heard by those below. As he maneuvered past the stairway hazard, he heard the murmur of voices drifting from the kitchen doorway ahead of him. In bent-kneed commando mode he hugged the wall, easing his head around the doorway to survey the perilous situation that confronted him. Once more he reviewed his plans, so carefully mapped out that morning -- so many things could go wrong if he moved before conditions were perfect.

_Come on!_ He thought. _Just turn around and go to the window..._ The younger of the two people inside the kitchen seemed to be picking up on Gordon's mental instructions, since he turned just at that moment toward the sink opposite Gordon's position. The second person followed suit. _Yes!_

Gordon quickly grabbed his opportunity, crouched and crab-scuttled rapidly to a position just behind the massive center island table whose surface was littered with racks, bowls, measuring spoons, cups and flour. Between the legs of the table he watched the feet of his adversaries, judging the perfect moment to launch his attack.

He exploded silently from behind the table and dove toward the object of his mission, sitting there unguarded. As he stretched forward and his fingers slid over the edge of the large bowl, a resounding _whack!_ ricocheted through the room and he howled in pain.

She'd hit him. She'd hit him right across the knuckles with that lethal wooden spoon.

"Ow, Grandma. That hurt!"

"It's no more than you deserve, Gordon Tracy, for trying to put your dirty fingers in my cookie dough!" Ruth Tracy stood with a hand on one hip, gesturing with the spoon at her grandson, who didn't look one bit cowed by his five foot nothing grandmother.

"You boys will get these chocolate chip cookies when they're done, and not a moment sooner. We're not going to have a repeat of last month. You and Alan made yourself sick on that dough and no one got any cookies that day."

"Yeah," said Alan, smirking at his brother. He was standing behind his Grandmother, so he felt secure enough, temporarily, to taunt Gordon. Alan was a skinny little boy, all legs and arms topped off with a headful of curls and cowlicks so blond they were nearly white. The white on white effect was completed today by the dish towel wrapped around his waist, and also the fact that he seemed to be covered from head to foot with flour.

Gordon frowned, looking at his brother, who was regarding him through oh-so-innocent blue eyes as he licked what looked suspiciously like cookie dough off the corner of his mouth.

"That's not fair. Alan had some."

"Alan is helping me. He gets to lick the spoon when I'm finished," said Grandma. Alan gloated at his brother but quickly rearranged his features as his grandmother turned toward him with a stern look. "That way I can also keep an eye on him so we actually have enough dough left to make cookies. Though you look like you may have more flour on you than in the bowl, Alan," she smiled, ruffling his hair…releasing a cloud of flour into the air.

Gordon rolled his eyes. Alan was the baby of the family and got away with murder all the time, or at least it seemed that way to him. One flash of those butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth baby blues and all the adults in a three mile radius seemed to go gaga.

"Both of you go on outside and do something useful," Grandma was saying. "Alan, go wash up first. I don't want to see flour all over the furniture." Alan reluctantly pulled the dough-sticky towel loose from his waistband and wiped his face with it.

"Come on, Al," Gordon said, "Let's go find Scott."

Alan brightened. Both boys shot out of the kitchen, letting the screen door bang behind them as they went off in search of their eldest brother, home from college for a visit.

Ruth Tracy smiled and shook her head as she turned back to her baking. She was off later that afternoon to visit with her sister. Although she was only going to be gone two days, she hated to leave her son Jeff and the boys without something besides sandwiches to eat. "That little imp," she chuckled to herself, thinking of Gordon's attempted cookie dough raid. "I should have had him help me in the kitchen instead of Alan. Alan's not nearly as sneaky."

The mouth watering scent of warm cookies filled the cozy, sunlit kitchen as Ruth began cleaning up the mess of Alan's kitchen efforts. He still couldn't hold still for long enough to really be much use at domestic things, but the opportunity to get into the chocolate chip cookies before his brothers had prompted him to offer his services as kitchen slave to his grandmother. Not that Ruth had been fooled for a minute about his motivation. She had raised a son long before there were grandchildren on the scene.

She thought about each of her grandsons as she pulled a baking sheet from the huge old fashioned oven and placed another one inside. Alan might learn to cook just enough to keep himself from starving…but probably not much more. Now Virgil, on the other hand, was turning out to be quite a good cook. Although the kitchen always looked like a bomb hit it when he was through. She placed cooled cookies into a plastic bin, then slid a spatula under the cookies on the sheet and began placing them on the cooling rack. She thought of the middle son, John and how he, in his turn, had tagged after her in the kitchen. And then, there was Gordon. Goodness gracious, that boy could think up more pranks to pull than all the others combined.

She couldn't help smiling, though, as she recalled some of his more spectacular practical jokes. The boy could be truly inspired sometimes.

Ruth opened the refrigerator and began to make a list of supplies the boys would need to pick up the next time they went to town. "Two dozen eggs, cheese, apples," she murmured to herself as she jotted down items. She picked up the milk carton, noting that it was almost full, and stepped into the pantry to check the second refrigerator. There was an extra carton of milk there which she picked up – and then noticed the date.

"Out of date! I'll bet Howard didn't rotate his milk stock again," she humphed as she opened the carton and sniffed. "Oh, dear. I'll have to pour that out now." She added milk to the list after emptying the offending carton. Virgil and Scott would likely be running into town in the morning and they could pick up the groceries then. "Well, there's enough left for the cookies this afternoon. If they want more, they'll just have to go get some."

Outside, Gordon caught up with Alan as they neared the barn. The two boys were only a little over a year apart and had shared a room for some time when they were small, and so had grown up very close to one another. Alan was extremely bright ("gifted," his teachers said – "a precocious brat," his brother Virgil said) and when he received his first chemistry set at the age of 9, it began his love affair with all things that went _bang_. Gordon wasted no time in availing himself of this new development, since it helped some of his practical jokes reach Rube Goldberg status. It was shamefully easy to point Alan in the direction of his chemical experiments, which generally resulted in something that burned, stunk or exploded, causing enough of an uproar to divert the family attention away from what Gordon might be up to. The thrill of a good joke for Gordon was not just for it to succeed but for it to be subtle enough that the family didn't immediately suspect _him_. Consequently, Alan often got blamed for things he didn't do.

Partners in crime, Scott called them. He knew their father just hoped they'd reach adulthood without him having to bail them out of jail too many times. The previous summer they had excelled themselves. Alan's diversion-gone-bad had actually set the bedroom floor on fire, and to crown it all, Jeff Tracy had arrived home from a business trip to find the local fire department in full turnout in their front driveway. He had gone off like a volcano and banished all Alan's belongings to the garden shed, and it had taken three days for Scott to rescue Virgil from the horrible fate of sharing his bedroom with his youngest brother. Virgil had threatened Alan that he'd be sleeping in the back yard for the rest of his life if he ever did anything like that again. Alan believed him.

"I can't believe you rolled over on me like that, Bro!" Gordon complained. "We could have had all the cookie dough for ourselves. I had a place all ready in our fridge. What's the deal with you helping out the enemy? Well, Grandma's not exactly the enemy, but you know what I mean. We had plans."

"Infiltration," said Alan as he swung the barn door open and moved into the cool shadows of the barn. Trickles of hay and dust sifted down from overhead and drifted lazily through beams of sunlight filtering through the barn's siding. "'Sides, I was looking for a diversion when you jumped the gun there."

"Yeah, right. All it took was a spoonful of dough for you to become a regular Benedict Arnold."

"Gee, thanks." Alan paused for a moment. "Who's Benedict Arnold?"

Gordon rolled his eyes. "Never mind. I've got another plan. If you can _actually_ create a diversion this time, I'll grab the cookies and we'll split. I was thinking about those fireworks I saved. If we can come up with something for you to do with them, that would be really cool."

"Weeellllll…." Alan was instantly backpedaling. "You know how much trouble I got into last time when I set the floor on fire. I think Dad's still mad at me for that. And Virg'll make me sleep in the yard."

"I bet he'll let you take a sleeping bag, though."

Alan pounced, grabbing Gordon in a headlock. Gordon tried to dislodge him with a few wrestling moves he'd learned in PE, but Alan managed to toss him over his shoulder, landing him with a thump in a pile of hay. The youngest Tracy whooped and ran for the loft ladder, scrambling up it with his brother hard on his heels, trying to pull him off the rungs.

Both boys dove for the large pile of loose hay against the far wall and began to unearth a wooden crate which hid their prize find of that summer…a small refrigerator. Inside were many esoteric items to be enjoyed when the grownups weren't looking. Miscellaneous sodas, a can of squirt cheese, months-old Halloween candy that would have melted in the heat of a Kansas summer, a half-eaten banana turning a lovely shade of black, and a rusting can of whipped cream last used to fill Virgil's shoes in an ill-considered joke on Gordon's part. Oh, how he'd paid for that one! There was also a dead rat that Alan had recently found, sealed in a plastic bag. He'd thought it might make a good joke somewhere along the way. Gordon couldn't have been more proud of his protégé.

Gordon opened the little refrigerator door, and immediately recoiled. "Um, Al, I think your rat is past its sell-by date."

Alan stared at the revolting baggy and offered, "Maybe we can freeze it 'till we can figure out what to do with it. You don't find a good dead rat every day."

"You know, you're right. But I don't think we could slip this one past Grandma. You could always hide it under Virgil's bed."

"Get real."

An expression crossed Gordon's face that made Alan hastily add, "And don't _you _put it under his bed either, 'cause I'll get blamed!"

Gordon decided closing the fridge door against the smell was a good temporary option. He grabbed two soft drinks first, and both boys sat down, sliding their legs under the railings at the edge of the loft. Gordon handed a cold can to his brother and they sat, swinging their legs above the stalls below, contemplating cookies and how to steal them from older brothers without getting maimed in the process.

"I still think we could use the fireworks," Gordon said.

"I don't know. They're two years old, kind of old and unpredictable," countered Alan.

"Well, I have a couple of smoke bombs left. You could set one off in the garden shed. If we put it in a metal can and open the window…,"

"No way!" said Alan. "I don't want the fire department coming out here again! Can't we think of something that won't set things on fire and get me grounded for the rest of my life?"

Gordon pulled himself up by the railing and leaned on it, idly scuffing his feet in the loose hay, sending a small waterfall of dust and bits of straw into the shadows below. "Well, I'll just have to think about this and come up with a plan, since you aren't being very cooperative today." Ignoring Alan's indignant stare, he continued, "Let's go find Scott and hang out with him for a while. That way Grandma will have time to finish baking and then I can scope out the situation."

The boys placed their empty cans on the floor, stomping them to watch the last droplets of liquid fly out across the straw in a small explosion of air, then tossed them into the recycling barrel below where they landed with a satisfying clank. Racing each other to the corner of the loft, they leaped onto a knotted rope suspended from the rafters above and scrambled nearly over the top of one another to the floor, then dashed out through the barn door into the warm summer day outside.

Ruth Tracy was transferring the last dozen cookies from the cooling rack into a Tupperware container, when a flash of red-gold caught her eye. She turned and saw Gordon walking nonchalantly down the porch, past the kitchen door…and on past the window. Without looking in.

_Hmmm_, she thought, noting that he hadn't stopped to wheedle cookies, even though she'd been standing there in plain view with a whole tray in her hands. Gordon had never met a cookie warm from the oven that he hadn't wanted to introduce himself to. Ruth knew this part. This was just the sort of innocent demeanor that Gordon had pretended before numerous occasions of mischief…a little like when the birds quit singing and it got all still and quiet before a storm front blew in and all Hades broke loose.

Ruth moved to the window and watched as her grandson sauntered out of sight around the corner of the wraparound porch. Her eyes began to twinkle with a devilish light, and she chuckled to herself. Setting the plastic bin aside, she turned to the last pan of raw cookies waiting to go into the oven. There were only four of them, so she scooped them off the pan and back into the mixing bowl. Then she went to the sink.

In a sunny spot on the window sill sat an innocent-looking plant in a glazed ceramic pot covered with colorful Mexican designs Suspended from the plant were a few rounded fruits, about the size of large marbles, some of them green and some green-turning-to-red. Ruth opened a drawer and put on a pair of plastic gloves, picked off a small green fruit from the plant and began to chop the Scotch Bonnet _habanero_ chile pepper into fine pieces. She carefully mixed the pieces into the remaining raw dough, which she then remade into cookies ready to bake. As she placed the pan into the oven, she smiled diabolically to herself. "Two can play at that game, my boy. I've short-sheeted a few beds in my time, too."

Her baking all done and the cleanup finished, Ruth left the kitchen and crossed the dining room toward the front stairs. Alan, stationed in the living room to keep a lookout, glanced up from the video game he was pretending to play. "Hi, Grandma. Going to pack now?"

"Why, yes, Alan," Ruth responded, eyeing him like an opponent in a game of chess as she passed by.

"Need any help?" Alan inquired innocently.

"No, thank you, dear," Ruth said, trying to suppress her smile at what was waiting for them in the kitchen. "I'll call you boys when the suitcases are ready to take down to the car."

"Okay, Grandma," Alan nodded, pretending to go back to his game.

As soon as she was gone, he jumped up and slipped toward the kitchen. With any luck, he wouldn't have to create a diversion after all, which would be much better for his overall health, not to mention his long term survival as a member of the Tracy family. You couldn't help feeling a bit expendable sometimes, when you were the youngest of five boys.

He looked around quickly for the cookies, but the usual container was nowhere in evidence. Much better to let Gordon take the big risk anyway. He ran up the back stairs to let Gordon know the coast was clear. "Hey, Gordo. Grandma went up to her room to pack. I'll keep watch while you grab the cookies."

"You were just in the kitchen, why didn't _you_ grab them?"

"Didn't see them. Anyway, that's your job."

"Okay," sighed Gordon. "I have to do everything, as usual."

He headed for the kitchen.

He slipped in like a commando on a night raid, crossing immediately to the counter where the cookies should have been. No container. He paused for a moment, temporarily thrown. Then he started the hunt. He opened cabinets. He opened drawers. He went through the pantry. He even looked in the fridge. Frustrated, he stood in the center of the room and tried to put himself into Grandma's head. _If I was a sixty seven year old lady, where would I hide my cookies?_

He turned slowly, scouring the room…and then he saw it. Sitting there in plain view on the counter. The antique bread bin.

Gordon swooped in. He lifted the lid and there it was, a plate with four lone cookies, still warm from the oven.

Only four.

He paused for only a moment before grabbing cookies and stuffing them into his mouth. _Too bad about Alan,_ he thought. _I'll just have to tell him I couldn't find them either._

And then, two things abruptly changed. First, the cookies began to taste strange, and second, his mouth was suddenly on fire. His face turned bright red, his eyes began to water profusely, and his nose started to run like a leaky faucet. His head was going to explode. He felt like a fire-eater who'd breathed in at the wrong moment and torched his mouth, throat and esophagus. Even his gums were burning.

He stared through streaming eyes at the remaining piece of cookie in his hand. Oh, no. No! There were tiny _green_ things in it. Tiny green things that looked like _chile peppers_. He'd been had! He'd walked into the trap like a hungry rat going for the bacon.

What to do, what to do? _Milk!_ That's what Grandma, who ate jalapenos out of the jar like candy, had always told them was the best way to kill the burn. Wheezing and gasping, he raced for the refrigerator, flung open the door and grabbed the carton of milk. Drinking straight from the container, he drained the entire thing, and started looking around for more. There was no milk in the second refrigerator. He stood gloomily surveying its interior, his mouth still on fire, tears running down his cheeks.

As the flames slowly subsided, his mind returned and it occurred to him he'd just drunk the last of the milk. _Not taking the blame for this one,_ he thought and replaced the empty carton in the kitchen fridge. He grabbed a piece of bread and a glass of very cold water and retreated to somewhere no one would find him until his head returned to its normal size.

Alan went looking for his brother after he figured enough time had elapsed to cover their tracks, but could find no trace of Gordon. "That buttface," he fumed. "I bet he took all the cookies and hid them for himself! Last time I help him." He stomped off to find something evil to put in Gordon's bed that night. Now how could he disguise the smell of that rat….?

Jeff Tracy arrived home that afternoon around 3:30pm and was greeted at the door by his mother and eldest two sons. "Hello, mother," he said as he gave Grandma a hug and a kiss. "Are you all packed for the weekend?"

"Yes," Ruth answered. "Laura hasn't seen Scott since Christmas, so he and Virgil offered to drive me over there tonight." She smiled at her oldest grandson, thinking of how handsome he had grown. He reminded her of Jeff in so many ways. _He's turned into a fine young man,_ she thought to herself. And that made her think of Gordon, suppressing a knowing smirk as she wondered where he'd gone to ground, since she hadn't seen him all afternoon. She'd gone back to check on the spiked cookies when she was finished packing, and they were gone -- so she knew he'd walked right into her trap. She wasn't surprised. She'd caught Jeff that way when he was a young boy, too. His sons would probably be quite surprised to know how much their father had gotten up to when he had been their age.

"Well, I promised all the boys cookies before I left, so I guess if everyone would like to come to the kitchen, I'll get out the bowl."

The boys didn't need to be told twice. Scott and Virgil went to round up their brothers.

It didn't take long for the horde to descend. Five Tracy boys – well, six if you counted their father – made quite a cacophony as they dragged out the wooden chairs from the long farmhouse table with its blue checked tablecloth. There was much laughter and playful shoving as they jostled for the best position and scraped the chair legs on the old scarred floor. When they were all in place and looking at her expectantly, Grandma went to the now cold oven, opened the door and withdrew the large plastic bin containing her prize chocolate chip cookies.

Jeff raised his eyebrows and said, "That's an interesting place to keep the cookies, Mother."

_Damn,_ Gordon thought. He'd never thought to look there!

_Hmmm,_ Alan thought, looking at his brother's expression. Maybe he hadn't stolen the cookies after all…

_Score one for the old lady,_ Grandma thought, pretending not to look at either one of them.

"Well, sometimes it's safer to store things where they can't be got at," she said, in answer to Jeff's comment.

Jeff frowned, momentarily puzzled. "Mice?" he asked.

"Could be. But I set a trap, and I don't that that particular critter will be bothering me any more."

"Well, good," Jeff nodded, still puzzled but focused on the cookies.

Gordon was glad he'd chosen the chair furthest from his Grandmother. She was not to be trusted.

Napkins and plates were handed out and cookies were passed. Virgil got up to get glasses for milk. He opened the fridge door, removed the milk carton and stopped. He shook the carton and tipped it up over the first glass. Two drops of milk dribbled from the empty carton. He frowned, tossed the carton into the garbage, and went to the pantry, re-emerging a moment later.

"Grandma, we're out of milk."

"We can't be, dear. There was almost a full carton in the fridge this afternoon."

"Well, there isn't now. And there's none in the pantry fridge, either." Virgil glared at his two younger brothers. "Who drank all the milk and put it back empty?" he said ominously.

Gordon's face remained studiously blank. Alan slowly began to turn pink as Virgil turned his steely stare on him.

"I didn't do it! Why do I always get blamed for things around here?" Alan began spluttering.

"Alan, stop whining. It's so unattractive," John said, smirking.

As Alan turned even redder and began to protest his innocence even more loudly, Virgil suddenly noticed Grandma looking speculatively at Gordon. Scott was looking at his younger brother, too. One by one, each Tracy head turned toward Gordon as they began to notice his uncharacteristic silence and too carefully composed expression. He hadn't even leapt at the chance to pick on Alan. Very suspicious indeed.

Gordon refused to break under the enemy scrutiny. "What?"

"Gordon, would you care to comment on this situation?" asked Scott.

"Situation?"

"The milk situation," said Virgil.

"Milk situation?"

"Yes," answered Scott.

"There's a situation with the milk?"

John leaned over to his father and inquired in a friendly voice, "Could we kill him, Dad? You've got four more of us."

Jeff regarded his second youngest, gimlet-eyed. "Gordon Robert Tracy, did you drink the last of the milk?"

Doomed. He was going to have to walk the plank. Gordon took a deep breath…and let it out. "Yes, sir."

"You know the rules. You break it, you buy it," said Jeff.

"Or in this case you drink it, you buy it," grinned Scott.

"Oh, man! You mean I gotta go to the store? Now?" whined Gordon.

"Yes," chorused everyone at the table.

"But that's three miles! The store will be closed before I get there."

"No, it won't," said Grandma. "Howard owes me a carton of milk anyway. I'll call him to watch for you."

"But you'll eat all the cookies!" Gordon burst out.

"No, we won't. Who eats cookies without milk?" asked Virgil who was a purist where these things were concerned. Everyone at the table was grinning at Gordon…even Alan, the traitor. Gordon wondered if he could find a way to get that rat into Alan's bed without him smelling it first. It would be worth it.

"You'd better get going, son," Jeff said. "You're burning daylight."

Gordon stomped from the table, muttering under his breath as he closed the screen door very firmly, not quite daring to slam it. As he began to furiously peddle his bike away from the house, he heard his grandmother yell, "Don't forget to check the date on the milk!"

Silence descended on the kitchen. Scott looked around the table at his brothers, folded his arms and leaned back with a smile. "Now. How shall we punish him?"

The sun was setting as an exhausted and furious Gordon peddled back up to the porch at the rear of the house. He jumped off his bike and left it where it fell, slamming up the steps to the back door and into the kitchen.

The room was deserted. The cookie bowl sat in solitary splendor in the center of the table. Gordon walked over to it slowly, shoulders stooped in disappointment, knowing what he was going to find, but unable to prevent himself from looking anyway. He set down the milk and tipped up the plastic tub. Just as he'd predicted. All that was left were crumbs.

The empty tub mocked him. Forlornly, he tapped the container so the few morsels left to him slid into one corner, wet his index finger in his mouth and used it to scoop up the sugary fragments. He placed them on his tongue, savoring them for as long as possible, and then with a heavy sigh he took the empty symbol of his defeat to the sink and rinsed it out.

After putting the milk away he stood for a moment thinking back over the day. How had it all gone so wrong? Where did he go off track? He thought he felt as bad as a human being could possibly feel until he turned around and saw the blinking red light of a camera placed on a shelf. His family had recorded his humiliation for posterity. Laughter floated from the living room.

_I bet that was Alan's idea,_ he fumed.

There was nothing left but to retreat to his room. He trudged up the stairs, his reputation in tatters. _I may have to run away from home,_ he thought. _Start over somewhere else, away from anyone who sees that tape. They'll never let me live this down._

The lamp beside his bed was lit, and the bed turned down. Gordon flopped on to the quilt and lay back on the pillow. His head encountered a hard lump.

"Now what?!" Checking warily for booby traps, he reached under the pillow for the object. It was a tin box he recognized, it usually sat on his grandmother's dresser and was filled with all sorts of odds and ends. He restrained the impulse to check to see if it was ticking.

There was something solid inside that slid from one end to the other. His curiosity piqued, Gordon opened the box.

Inside were a dozen, perfect chocolate chip cookies.

He was forgiven, and all was right with the world. Maybe he'd give this place another try. A warm glow came over him as he picked up the first cookie, his mouth watering in anticipation.

But he still broke it open first to check for tiny green peppers…just in case.


End file.
